


Wait For Me

by sasha_b



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Art, Community: smallfandombang, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Movie(s), Slash, hurt!Arthur, sick!Lancelot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 23:24:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3788203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur Castus, the commander of fortress Camboglanna in the north of Roman Britain, is ambushed while on a routine patrol and taken hostage by the local Pict warriors that populate the close north of Hadrian's Wall. Arthur's knights and his second in command, Lancelot ap Ban, attempt to retrieve him without trouble.</p><p>Trouble tends to follow Arthur and his knights, however, as Lancelot, while possessing the best intentions and slightly hidden love for Arthur, seeks to save the commander while still recovering from a violent flu that has killed several of the fortress's denizens a few weeks previous. Lancelot and the other knights recover Arthur, but things go awry and Lancelot is accused of trying to kill his commander by the Roman legions that still occupy fortress Camboglanna.</p><p>Can Arthur save his second despite the disdain and hatred the Roman army has for the conscripts Arthur leads? Can he save Lancelot despite the other man's propensity for anger and rash decision making? To what lengths will Arthur go to save the man that knows him best of all?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait For Me

**Author's Note:**

> Art by [Marple_Juice](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Marple_Juice/pseuds/Marple_Juice), who deserves huge thanks and kudos for her excellent work and lovely patience and ability to work well with me. I have really enjoyed it. 
> 
> Many huge thanks for the pre-read and comments by [Spiteful Angel](http://xspitefulangelx.livejournal.com/profile) . Thank you K!
> 
> I always use the historical fortress name of Camboglanna (modern name, Castlesteads) for Arthur's garrison. It was the 12th fort on Hadrian's Wall counting from the east, near fortresses Birdoswald and Uxelodunum.
> 
> I love Roman and Roman British history but loathe detailed research, so I'm sure I have the names of the commanders/captains/optio's wrong. I take full responsibility for any mistakes like that.
> 
> Lancelot calls Arthur "Artos" a lot because I like it.

His head throbs, like someone’s tried to scrape his skin from his skull. Firelight flickers in his peripheral vision, and Arthur tries to focus, but he can’t seem to lift his head high enough or turn his neck in the right direction.

He’s sweating inside his armor, but snow falls on him from the black sky, so black as to obscure the stars and moon he knows are there. Voices speak around him, but it’s not Sarmatian or Latin or even the pidgin British the locals speak. It sounds like –

 _he can see his mother from where he stands, holding his father’s giant sword, but he can’t get to her. Men swarm around the village, ants spilled from a mound, and he screams for her and she calls back, but there’s too many people and he is too small and he can’t push through and the fire roars up and consumes the house and_  
Woad language. He narrows his eyes and jerks at his bound hands, the comforting weight of Excalibur (he’s never without it, not since that night) gone and he tries to sit but he is trussed like a dead boar. He curses and tilts his head downward, looking at his hands and feet, trying to assess just how bad things are – his head, God – and he grunts as someone kicks him in the ribs, forcing him to turn to his back, everything aching.

The man that squats in front of Arthur is young, as young as Galahad, and Arthur squints through the pain in his head and now his ribs as he tries to understand what the Woad is saying. The warrior is gesturing violently and Arthur shakes his head though that hurts and says in British _I don’t understand you_ and tries again to work his hands apart. Snow is falling into his eyes and he can’t see, so he raises his arms, attempting to wipe the slushy stuff away, and the Woad boy shouts and other men and women surround them and Arthur scrambles with tied arms and legs to sit up and his mouth opens and spills out words that he’s sure they don’t grasp.

The boy holds a sword in his hand – Excalibur – and before Arthur can do anything but blink the hilt of his father’s sword strikes his temple and everything is one concentrated sharp pain and then nothing.

*

His cough seems drier now, and not so spasmodic.

Snow drifts through the empty courtyard; Lancelot is wearing more layers than he would normally deign to be seen in, but like it or not, the wracking cough and fever that have taken him out of commission for multiple weeks have left him shaking and thin and tired. And cold, all the time cold. He curses and spits to the side, bright blobby phlegm splatting to the ground, the red that tinges it duller than before. He smiles and wipes dirty fingers over his lips and teeth, and ignores the blood that comes away on his skin.

The knights are due back now, and he’ll be damned if he’s found in bed when they return this time – he coughs and spits again and it’s still red and he hobbles toward the gates, thinking to stop at the tavern for wine that will heat his chilled lungs and chest.

He retrieves the drink from Vanora with a sly smile and empty eyes and proceeds to the catwalk that surrounds the exterior wall of Camboglanna, squinting at the horizon, the snowy afternoon sky dark and making things hard to see. He raises a hand and brushes at his hair, long and wild and messy from several months of no care and ice falls to the ground, tinkling and breaking and wetting his padded jacket and leathers. He blinks hard and the flakes that cling to his eyelashes melt and fall with the force of movement.

He sips his wine.

Hoofbeats.

Finishing the drink in one large gulp, Lancelot licks dry and cracked lips and coughing one more time, descends to the ground and watches as the sentries that man the gates pull the heavy things open, four mounted horses and one empty one thundering through.

The sun chooses this opportune moment to break through the black, fat clouds and Lancelot has to raise a boney hand to shield his sensitive eyes, too used to the sick room darkness, and when he is able to see, he strides forward, the dagger he keeps in his boot drawn and wrapped in his fist as he stops at Gawain’s horse, the blond man dismounting, dirty, bloody, disheveled, angry.

“What the fuck.”

“Woads ambushed us an hour north of here. Tristan’s out, tracking him. We’re going to ride out again shortly – we came back for more supplies. Galahad’s injured,” he jerks his matted head at the youngest knight, who’s being helped off his horse by Dagonet, an arrow protruding from his shoulder. Lancelot’s hand shakes uncharacteristically – he finally sheathes the knife, Gawain’s eyes following the movements, and then tracking upward to Lancelot’s black gaze.

“I’m coming with you.” Lancelot’s already turned toward the stables, his anger at his brothers a banked brand that threatens to explode, showering sparks enough to burn the garrison down, should one of them say the wrong word. Gawain catches his arm and holds him back. “You are still ill. Let us do this.”

“Let go of me.”

Gawain hesitates, and Lancelot slams his fist into the other man’s cheekbone before Gawain can move. He stumbles back, cursing, and Lancelot goes after him, ready to subdue him, but he’s still weak and stumbles over a broken piece of pottery, falling to his hands and knees, coughing, blood dripping from his mouth, sweat springing out on his forehead despite the chill of the air. Gawain lays on his back, Lancelot kneeling next to him, and neither man moves as the other knights flow around them, leading the horses, Arthur’s Llamrei riderless and Lancelot manages to get to his feet, anger at this sight propelling him to stand. He wipes at his mouth and puts out the sticky, crimson dotted hand to Gawain, who grasps it and rises.

“I am going with you.”

“If I have to care for you while searching for Arthur, you will be sorry,” the blond bites off, and Lancelot lets go of his hand, the two men following the other knights to the stables, Lancelot’s mind whirling despite his weak body – a plan forming – as crows land on the roofs of the structures around them, silent and hulking and dislodging the snow that settles on the slate tiles of the building gutters.

*

Arthur wakes, his head spinning as he is assisted to sit, a slim hand at his back as he leans against a tree. The pine bark pokes him and he drinks out of the simple cup the girl child hands him; she crouches at his side, watching him with huge blue eyes that speak volumes even as she says nothing. He drinks and when he’s finished she takes the cup away.

Snow is still falling and he shivers – they’ve removed his armor and he’s sitting on the cold ground, several feet from the bonfire the Woads have raging at the center of their camp, his black wool tunic and undershirt and leathers and boots the only defense he has against the elements. He looks at the girl again and realizes she’s older than he’d first thought. Twelve perhaps, or thirteen. Her hair is long and loose and she wears furs as they all do in the winter, her cheekbones high and sharp and he wonders if he tried to touch them would they cut him, just like –

“You have to let me go,” he says to the girl, and her eyebrows rise, but she doesn’t respond. “The garrison will send an army to retrieve me, and your people will be slaughtered.”

“If they can find us, Arthur Castus. Rome,” the voice is low and strong and Arthur swallows against the sudden urge to vomit – fear rises from the pit of his stomach, only to be taken over by the acid that is anger and _retribution, you God damned bastard killer_ and he jerks at his bound hands as Merlin approaches, sinewy and tall and lanky and his chest bare, despite the weather. He’s painted with blue marks and he’s flanked by two other men, warriors, one bearing a staff with a knife point end, the other carrying Excalibur between both hands.

“Untie me and it won’t matter if they find you,” Arthur snarls and struggles against his bonds and the Woad warriors laugh, one of them saying something to Merlin as Arthur falls to his side in the snow, his head dizzy and his vision coming and going, spots dancing, lights and rainbows in his eyes. They must have hit him more than once.

“Don’t underestimate this one,” Merlin says and crouches at Arthur’s side, lifting his head by the hair from its snow pillow. “He is strong.”

Their eyes meet – Arthur can only see the Woad incursion that had decimated his village as a child and had taken his mother from him – but he stills his tongue as Merlin touches his forehead and mutters something in his language that makes Arthur shake to hear. But then he reminds himself it’s not the words but the cold that makes him shake. He is not afraid of this man; if he would let Arthur loose then Arthur could face him the way he should be faced, no cowardice.

“I could kill you faster than you could reach for that dagger that’s hidden in your boot, Arthur Castus,” the name coming from Merlin’s lips sounds odd with its slight accent. Snow dots his bound hair, its length reaching his waist, and he shoves at Arthur as he tries once again to sit up with his boot clad foot, Arthur falling against the tree behind him. The girl is still there, and she barks something at Merlin, who turns to stare at her with burning eyes – the two warriors that have accompanied him can’t meet the force of that gaze, but the girl can.

“Stay with him,” Merlin says to her after a moment. “We’ll come for him at dawn. Take that dagger,” he gestures at Arthur’s boot, and the girl leans over him, the musk of her body and a weird perfume tickling his nostrils as her hair passes over his shoulder and chest. She plucks the dagger from his boot with tiny fingers and Arthur shakes his head, throbbing temple and dripping nose almost as annoying as his trussed up hands. “You think I can’t get away from a girl? My men will come, Merlin, and you will be destroyed. You can stop that by letting me go now.”

Merlin straightens as the snow begins to fall again, and Arthur shakes his bound hands, anger twisting his face, memory and rage all there is – if his knights come, and they will, this whole camp will be decimated, and that wouldn’t serve his purpose. No matter what he’d like to think – his purpose is his alone, Merlin is his alone, and he won’t let anyone stand in his way.

“Let me go. We can finish this like men.”

Merlin lifts his chin and says something to his warriors; the one carrying Excalibur hands it to the girl and she backs away, trading the dagger for the broadsword. She watches Arthur, her long hair blowing about her face, her eyes too sharp and Arthur shakes his head, finally able to drag his gaze from the girl to Merlin when the Woad man speaks again.

“Violence does not make you a man, Artos Rex,” he says in that weird lilting voice. Arthur shudders – only one other man has called him _Artos_ , and that man would never call him _Rex_. Not without a well deserved laugh. Arthur is no king.

“Strategy and compassion make you a man. You will learn that over time. Or you will die, just like your conscripts, and feed this land with your blood. Blood that we need. Yours.” He barks a command at the other warrior and the man hustles off, the girl backing away further from where Arthur is trussed against the tree. Merlin stares back at Arthur. “We need you. Your blood. You.”

The old man stares, his dark eyes shockingly bright in the gloom. “Your knights will come. They will die. Would you waste them?”

Arthur jerks at his bonds and attempts to get his feet under him – the rage at the mention of his knights floods his vision with _red, always red_ and just as he manages to gain one knee, the girl is there, at his right side, and he curses her as her fist flashes out, the steel hilt of his father’s weapon connecting with his temple, again.

*

Tristan materializes next to Lancelot, the woods dark and spotted with slush and fresh snow. Trees creak in the frozen wind and Lancelot realizes he hasn’t been able to feel his fingers for some time now; the heated wine Vanora had forced on him long gone, his belly and lungs ice, the coughing coming more frequently now. He ignores Gawain’s stare and meets Tristan’s eyes.

“I picked up his trail two leagues north. They’ve been dragging him,” Tristan says, his voice almost picked up and thrown away by the wind. “I can find him, provided the snow holds off.”

Lancelot gigs his horse and hawks phlegm to the side – blood red snow, as always, and he wipes his teeth and lips with the back of his hand. “Go,” he snaps in their native tongue. “We will beat the bitch nature or we will die trying.”

Lancelot’s always been able to follow Tristan, and now is no exception.

It’s black dark when they come to a stop. The four knights that have accompanied them – Bors and Dagonet along with Tristan, Lancelot and Gawain – are silent next to each other, all dismounting, weapons drawn. Moonlight filters through the clouds, pregnant with snow, whatever god that’s smiled down on them for this short time ready to unleash icy hell as soon as it deems time. They must hurry.

 _Story of my life_.

Lancelot laughs bitterly, and then coughs, spitting blood and smiles through viscous red teeth, nodding to Tristan as the other man jerks his braided head toward the clearing that lies just to their northwest. “Twenty men, ten horses. I counted at least fifteen armed.” Tristan is no-nonsense. “I can’t see Arthur, but I can see a guard placed on someone. And it’s only one guard – a girl.”

Bors’ guffaw would have shaken the trees had Dagonet not clouted him on the back of the head – Lancelot’s answering smirk is briefly brilliant in the glow of the snow-white moon, an expression he’s good at no matter how he feels. Bors frowns and rubs his skull, cursing the other knight under his breath. Wind picks up, and the clouds decide now is the time, and soon they’re all blinking powdery cold flakes out of their eyes and wiping it out of their hair as they crouch at the edge of the clearing, most of the Woads asleep or on watch.

“They’re not paying much attention,” Tristan murmurs to Lancelot; they’re squatted together, closest to the girl guard and the lump of body that must be Arthur. The fever that’s been banked in Lancelot for several hours – and thanks to the hot wine he’d drank – awakes, a trembling, crackling, angry thing that pushes sweat from his pores and makes his body alternately hot and cold. He blinks, shaking suddenly, vision blurring. He shoves it down; he’s been sicker, and Arthur must be retrieved or so many bad things will happen he can’t even begin to imagine the consequences should they not succeed.

“Then we have a chance. Let’s go,” Lancelot answers, his mouth full of thick mucus that he has to swallow down. He draws one of his blades and points silently at the Woads he can see standing to the left of the tree and the girl. “I’ll see what this is.” He stands and quietly slips forward, Tristan rising and crossing opposite. He whispers something to the other men, and they peel off, each focusing on a guard or Woad to take care of.

Lancelot wavers, his fever cooking him from the inside out, his footsteps light despite feeling as though he’ll explode from the newly risen heat. He feels the need to cough, desperately swallowing over the urge; he’s a knight, first and foremost, and a killer of Woads and he won’t let this little disease take him out and do damage to his reputation.

Least of all get Arthur killed, but that’s another story.

The two men that had been standing by the tree where the girl is guarding the body beneath it move, unexpected and quick, dragging what has to be Arthur with them. Lancelot whistles sharply to Tristan, jerking his head at the action and Tristan is a blur of motion, following them inside the quiet camp as Lancelot rounds the tree and has the girl up against it, his blade at her throat, the noise of his footfall covered by the falling snow. Fires dot the Woad camp, but they are rapidly extinguished by the wetness that coats his hair, his shoulders, his hands, and the girl’s face.

She’s not as young as he’d thought, but he snarls anyway and holds his blade higher to her throat, his body shoving her against the tree. She is not troubled – that bothers him more than it should, although the Woads are a strange lot – but merely stares at him through a mass of wild dark hair, her eyes light and weird and her hands reach up and grab the blade end of his sword, her skin beginning to pat blood onto the ground.

He hears the sounds of battle beginning behind him, the sound of slick blood and gore and the dance that the knights know all too well, and he smiles through the blood on his lips at the girl that’s not afraid of him.

“I can slit your throat, little Pict princess,” he murmurs, his words low and dark and fever tinged and he presses closer. “Where’s Arthur? The Roman you caught?”

“He’s with my father,” she answers, pressing harder against the sword in her hands, blood falling faster now. Lancelot blinks again, and his blurry vision makes her triple in his eyes and he curses and jerks the blade from her and draws the second, deadly and quick and he whirls them, together forming an “x” that’s nearly impossible for anyone to escape from –

She’s gone.

He turns and spits and joins his fellows as they decimate the camp, eyes wetly searching for Arthur, the disease that invades him still making his joints weak, his body tired and eager for bed, his hands shake and his skill at what he does best pathetic and he screams Arthur’s name, not seeing the Roman anywhere, only seeing other knights and dead and dying Woads.

Blue faces, blue skin and blood and they’re everywhere and everyone and Lancelot is alone, no Arthur, no Tristan, and he fights on and whirls and spins and dances and laughs and the fever in him is fire bright, his eyes snapping with the wildness of it, his lungs burning and the snow that falls melts on him too fast to stick. He turns and takes an enemy’s head, spins to his right and hamstrings another, and despite the growing sound of Sarmatian curses and battle cries in the air, he keeps on and bloodies all he can see and touch.

 _Merlin_.

The old man is there, in front of him, bare chested and blue with paint and his crazy hair slips over his shoulder as he snarls at Lancelot, the staff in his hands long and thick and Lancelot darts forward, _here’s my chance_ and swings in a triumphant arc and screams

_for my family_

_for Arthur_

_for me_

his Sarmatian words heavy and thick on his tongue and

 _Lancelot- nonononononononononono_ ripples through his fever-haze and the green eyes that are suddenly in his face, right in front of him, his blades blocked by – is that Excalibur? – singing with the sound of fury denied –

“Lancelot!”

He stumbles forward and only Arthur’s warrior’s skill is quick enough to keep him away from Lancelot’s shining blades, the momentum behind Lancelot’s booted feet too much to stop him from trying to slice Arthur’s throat open. But Arthur’s shoulder takes the brunt of the slash that was meant for his neck (a Woad’s neck, not Arthur’s) and blood floods the brightness of his skin.

The other man has Woad paint on his stubbled face, his black tunic torn at the shoulder, his leathers and boots dark enough to force him to stand out in weird relief against the snow and blood coated ground. Blood from the wound Lancelot has given him contrasts with the black _shadow_ darkness of the winter night.  
Lancelot has fallen to his knees, and he drops his blades, hands too weak to hold them, blood and gore and guts and bodies and dead enemies everywhere – where is Merlin? – wasn’t he just there –

But no, it’s Arthur, Arthur, the man they’ve been trying to find, Arthur he’s wounded, and Lancelot smiles through blood and snot and the fever burns and consumes and he turns his head, sweat coating his face and back and hands and all of him as his cracked lips break open again as he sees Arthur instead of the Woad he thought the other man was. _Arthur_ he’s wounded.

“Artos,” he says, surprise and something –

Arthur leaps forward, his left shoulder bleeding on to Lancelot as Arthur tries to reach the knight, too late to catch him as he faints into a sticklike, burning heap in the snow.

*

“…told him I’d kill him if I had to care for him too…”

“…been like this for weeks now. It’s like it won’t let…”

“…the medicus now!”

Searing, intense pain in his lungs, so bad he wants to rip them out himself to stop the ringing, agonizing thing that is breathing. He struggles, tearing at the blankets, the thing that’s holding him down, tendons, tendrils, snakes that won’t let him up, won’t let him stand and go to his horse, to get to his family, to take up arms against the thing that’s draining his strength, taking from him the only thing in this gods-forsaken country that’s worth his life, worth anything.

Worth trying to breathe when it hurts so very much.

Black.

He cracks an eye.

The only sound is the – brazier, yes, that’s the word. He blinks, unevenly, the grey of the sky almost too bright to bear, but he opens his eyes fully and raises a hand to his chest, the ache there still, but he can breathe now, he can breathe without dying, without the fire that’s been his companion for too long to think about.

He turns his head to look at the window, to try and gauge what time it might be, and the edge of the bed he’s laying in dips and he cants his eyes to see what has caused the change.

The brazier crackles and he’s cold as Arthur, bandage swathing his shoulder, touches his thigh as the other man sits on the bed, sits close to Lancelot, face white and drawn and black bags under his eyes the size of thunderheads and Lancelot winces when he draws too quick a breath.

“Your wound?” he asks, lips dry and sore, his tongue snaking out to wet them, mouth a desert, voice low and rough and he has to cough, swallowing a sharp, unforgiving knife in his throat.

“It will heal. Drink this,” the other man commands, and Lancelot barks a wince inducing laugh at the tone that Arthur cannot ever lose. He sips at the poppy laced infusion Arthur has handed him and coughs and hands it back after drinking as much as he’s able. The Roman frowns but takes the mug.

It’s chilly in the room despite the brazier, and Arthur takes note of his shiver and covers him with another fur. The rich bedding and loftiness of the room tells Lancelot he’s not in his own chamber, and his smile is rough and tired as he tilts his head upward. “Jols let you sleep on the floor?”

Arthur’s face doesn’t crack. “I had a cot brought in.” He gestures to the side and Lancelot can see the edge of a traditional army travel cot. He closes his eyes, if only to make his roll of them more obvious, but he finds he wants to sleep once they’re closed. Arthur’s hand is on his forehead and then at the base of his throat. “Sleep,” he says, and without meaning to, Lancelot does.

*

Screaming wakes him, and he jerks and sits up and flinches at the pain that immediate movement causes. Arthur’s face swims in to view, and Lancelot shoves at the cup in the other man’s hand.

“Drink it,” Arthur growls, and Lancelot bares his teeth at him. He coughs, but it’s weaker and not so –

“I don’t want to sleep anymore, Arthur. I’ve been in bed too long.”

Arthur’s shoulder is still bandaged, but it’s a lot smaller than it was, and that pleases and worries Lancelot. How long has he been abed? How long has it been since they’d rescued the Roman man? How long since the last time he’d looked on Arthur’s face without being taken over by fever and disease?

“You need to heal. Drink at least some of it.” Arthur’s face is uncharacteristically drawn and pleading. The room is brighter than the last time, and he’s not so chilly, although the crackling of the brazier is welcome. He sighs and sits against the fur pillowed at his back and sticks out his hand. “Some,” he grudgingly agrees.

The flavor is distinct and unwelcome and he takes a few sips and puts the mug down. “I heard shouting.” Arthur twists his lips and doesn’t meet Lancelot’s eyes. Arthur is dressed in leathers and a black tunic, his feet shod still with dirty army issue boots; Lancelot’s eyebrows pop up at the mud that coats their hobs. Arthur would never wear dirty footwear inside his rooms. He frowns, and cocks his head, crossing his arms over his thin chest. “I heard shouting,” he repeats.

“You were screaming in your sleep,” Arthur answers shortly. Lancelot opens his mouth and then closes it. He picks up the mug and sips at it, feeling the poppy extract, not wanting to sleep just yet. A piece of tinder pops in the brazier and Arthur finally looks at him. He reaches out a hand and touches Lancelot’s forehead, then his neck, and finally his chest, over where his heart beats. He shakes his head, and Lancelot takes note of his growing stubble and longer hair. “How long, Arthur?”

“Three weeks,” Arthur answers. Lancelot cannot help the groan that echoes through Arthur’s quarters, the covers slipping to the ground as Lancelot attempts to rise. Arthur’s hand on his chest shoves hard and he’s back against the furs that protect him from the chill of the wall.

 

“Arthur, damn it! What have you been doing without me for that long? How have you been managing the fortress – have you gone out on patrols without me? Have you searched out _Merlin_ without me?” Lancelot’s words are ice, hissed and sibilant. To his credit, Arthur does not turn away; rather, he leans forward and puts his face close to Lancelot’s red-cheeked one.

“You think I cannot manage my own garrison without you?” The words are harsh but the tone is soft and teasing, and Lancelot snarls and knocks Arthur’s hand away from his skin. “Don’t joke,” he bites off. “Your wound?”

Arthur shakes his head and pulls the edge of his tunic down, exposing the shoulder and the bandage that covers the wound. He lifts the linen and Lancelot sees the angry red puckered slash that comes oh so close to Arthur’s neck, so close to his big vein and he shoots a hard breath from his nose, waving at Arthur for the other man to cover it. “It’s fine,” Arthur says. “One of many. It was not your fault, Lancelot,” he interrupts as Lancelot opens his mouth to argue, Arthur’s saying of his name stilling his tongue almost as much as the other man’s words. How long has it been?

How long.

“It has healed well, so do not fret,” Arthur adds. He twitches and pulls back from his close proximity to Lancelot, his eyes shadowing, his face getting that pinched and closed off Lancelot knows too well. “Everything will be fine.”

A knock interrupts them. Arthur swings his eyes to Lancelot’s, and the panic in them forces a knot of tension to rise in Lancelot’s gut. He wants to ask, but –

“Commander Castus! It is Falco,” a voice rings through the closed door, and Arthur shoves at Lancelot, throwing the furs back over him, and hisses one word as he rises for the door.

_Pretend._

Lancelot knows when not to question the other man, but –

He hears Arthur open the door and closes his eyes, feigning slumber, lips slightly open, hands and body relaxed as though he’s not got a care in the world.  
Two pairs of feet enter the room, and Lancelot can feel the gaze of Optio Falco burning through him – and he waits – should he move?

“He’s better?”

“He still needs time.”

“Commander. I know this Sarmatian is one of yours, but the others, myself included, are anxious to speak with him about what happened.”

“I have told you. He was protecting my flank while the rest of my men were attempting to rescue me from Woad rebels.”

“But we have reports that he caused the wound at your neck. The wound you almost bled to death from, commander.”

_bled to death_

“As you can see I am fine. I am healing well, and nothing is wrong. While I appreciate you and the other’s concerns – ”

“Commander Castus, it is because we are concerned for your safety that this matters to me. To us. Please, let us know when this man is awake and coherent enough for discussion.”

The sound of boots again, and the door is closed.

One pair of boots approaches the bed, and Lancelot explodes up and out of the furs, and Arthur’s eyes widen as Lancelot shoves him up against the wall, rage and impotent fury stealing his breath, bringing the cough again, but he shakes Arthur and shouts.

“Bled to death??”

“Get off me and get back in the bed,” Arthur commands; there’s no mistaking the ire and annoyance in his tone. “You will make yourself worse. You’ve been abed too long at any rate, lieutenant.” Arthur grabs Lancelot’s arm and marches him back to the bed, forcing him to his backside, even if Lancelot won’t lie down.

“Bled to death, Artos.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

Lancelot sighs and leans back against the wall. “I’ve seen the size of the wound. Did Gawain carry you back?”

“I rode on my own. With prisoners. It’s done, Lancelot. I need you to sleep so you _can_ help me here.”

Arthur turns and sighs and his back is bowed as he sits at the edge of his own bed. “The others, they want to blame you for this,” his says, his words crisp even as he rubs his face. “Not the knights. The army,” he raises a hand before Lancelot can accuse Gawaine of treachery. “They need someone to take the fall because they’re getting push back from Londinium on the lack of dead natives.” His stubbled face twitches; Lancelot wants to put his fingers on Arthur’s forehead to smooth the lines there, but he stays his desire. “I don’t know that Rome wants to support us here much longer.”

Lancelot blinks.

“We have eight years left, Arthur.”

“We may not be here that long.” Arthur’s words are soft but sure.

“What makes you think that? Have you said anything to the others? That is…Arthur. What does that mean?”

Arthur shakes his head and turns to fully face Lancelot. “That is my own thought, and no, I have not said anything to anyone else. Do not let it go beyond this room, Lancelot. My thoughts are based on the feedback we’ve been getting from … ” he makes a face. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I don’t feel supported here, and I don’t think you’re safe as long as the other men want to speak to you.”

“Didn’t you say you brought a prisoner with you?” Lancelot’s mind is still reeling from the possibility of _going home_ but he grasps at straws when Arthur mentions the other Romans. “So they want a scapegoat for your capture they can report back on. So Londinium leaves us alone for whatever time we have left here? So they can do what they want,” he finishes, hawking and spitting at the brazier. He wipes his lips; his fingers come away slightly pink, but not the red of months before. He smiles, a bright white and pointed thing, and he watches Arthur’s expression carefully.

The other man is blank, which to Lancelot is sometimes worse than when he is raging or calm.

“I will not let them blame you, no matter the reason,” the commander states, conviction making his face twist. “They need to be responsible for their own failures as a garrison, and I for one will not let my knights be a party to lies.” He stands and straightens, although he favors his wounded side. Lancelot’s gut roils again, and he reaches for the cup of medicine, despite not wanting to sleep, knowing the poppy inside will blot out the feelings of _I did this._ At least for a while.

“Lancelot,” Arthur’s voice seems to come from very far away as Lancelot slugs down the vile tasting drink. “Don’t think – this isn’t your fault. I have dealt with worse,” he laughs, and Lancelot recognizes the false bravado in it. “I will take care of the men. You rest until you can help me. I will need you at my side.”

He turns and strides from the room, and Lancelot closes his eyes, the drink’s effect rapidly turning his muscles and brain to mush.

Arthur’s fingers touch his throat lightly, and brush over his collarbone. “I need you at my side always,” the other man says, and Lancelot, no matter the desperate want he has to answer or to punch Arthur, says nothing, his eyes remaining closed, his body curled in on itself, and finally Arthur turns back again and is gone for good this time.

*

This time when the scream that wakes him comes, Lancelot is ready for it, but he’s definitely not ready for the ring of Roman infantry officers that surround the bed. He’s still in Arthur’s quarters, but he figures he’ll be moving soon, as he can sit without pain and his head is clear and his breathing is tolerable.

The optio – Lancelot can tell by his dress – clears his throat and Lancelot raises his eyebrows. “To what do I owe this pleasure, gentlemen?” he asks, coughing only once. No blood. He smiles and his teeth are sharper than his blades. He misses his blades. Then he remembers they blooded Arthur, and he sobers.

It’s warm in the room; warmer still due to the presence of armed soldiers and Lancelot crosses his arms, the thin tunic he wears inadequate protection. He wishes for his armor, and he wishes again for his swords, even though he’d have to have a long think about how that will feel knowing they caused the almost _bled to death_ -

“You are commander Castus’ second, correct?”

The man is not a fan of pleasantries, obviously. Lancelot sits up straighter and feels surreptitiously for the dagger he knows Arthur keeps under a pillow. “Yes,” he answers. “Lancelot ap Ban. And you are?” he asks cheerfully, suppressing his urge to spit at the Roman.

“Optio Falco. We want to know your version of what happened when you and your fellows went to rescue commander Castus from the woads that took him,” the other man answers, his sentence bitten and brusque. “And how the commander came to almost die from a wound you gave him at said rescue.” His emphasis on the word is slow and sarcastic, and Lancelot wishes to all the gods he had the strength to rise quickly on his shaky legs and spear this Roman through the gut with the dagger that rests hidden in his lap. Where _is_ Arthur? Does he know these men are in his quarters without him?

“Does the commander know you’re here?”

“He’s out on patrol, despite my objections,” the optio says. “We’ve been waiting for you to wake, lieutenant.”

_Snow, driving snow, blood and slush mixed to make a paste that coated their boots and their faces and Lancelot feels the fever burning bright in him, terrorizing his rational mind that is buried by disease that threatens to steal everything from him, his training, his brain, his power. He swings his swords and there are Woads everywhere, in every corner, and he can’t find Arthur and someone rushes him, Merlin, by the gods, and he spins into his dance of death and then Arthur is there, bleeding and Lancelot falls_

“I don’t remember much.”

“How did you come to give commander Castus such a deep wound? Surely you remember your own commanding officer approaching you? Surely you’d know the difference between him and a local?”

“His face was painted,” Lancelot shoots back, that detail swimming to the forefront of his mind oddly, unbidden. _He’d been wearing that blue_ “They’d painted him to look like one of them. So we’d not see him, I’d guess.”

_You almost didn’t._

“But he wasn’t dressed as a Roman? Don’t you know your own commander’s face?” the optio leans closer to Lancelot, and Lancelot grips more tightly at the dagger. His vision swims, and the heat of Arthur’s rooms is suddenly oppressive and too much. He feels sweat bead at his back and upper lip. He fingers the dagger and begins to draw it from under the covers, discretion be damned, these men want the deaths of all of them, no matter what Arthur says, and he smiles as he leans closer to the optio, mimicking his posture.

“Did you want your commander to die, knight? Did you want to use this opportunity to ‘take care of him’ as you thought you could? Killing as many Woads at the same time, blaming them for something you did?”

“What is this?”

Lancelot relaxes back into the pillows, his grip slackening on the blade he’s almost drawn. The optio snaps to attention and stands up, his body heat easing away from Lancelot in the bed. His face is a mask of obedience and Lancelot wants to kill him for that alone.

“What are you doing in my quarters without my permission?” Arthur comes into view and Lancelot is struck by the power in the man’s bearing and yet – he could have killed Arthur so many times, as the Romans are suggesting. When he’d first met Arthur, times when they were on missions, at night when the other man was too trusting, too open, too vulnerable. He smiles tightly; Arthur’s facing the men that ring his bed and his lieutenant and Lancelot thinks _bled to death_ and wonders again for the hundredth time why he cares after so many years of being treated like offal and slaves by the massive, horrid Roman military monster. Arthur is still wearing his daily armor and he’s grubby and tired and Excalibur rides at his hip like a tamed dragon, waiting only for the tiny gesture from the man that carries it to strike.

“Commander,” the optio snaps a salute. “We’d been told this man was awake, and wanted to finish our investigation into your almost murder,” the optio cuts his eyes toward Lancelot, “as quickly as possible. It is a crime that needs, no…deserves an answer.”

“And you couldn’t wait until I’d returned from patrol to enter my rooms and question my second without me.” Arthur’s face is calm, but Lancelot can see the tick of the vein that runs next to his temple. The optio bites his lip and backs away from Arthur minutely. The brazier pops, and Lancelot waits.

“It is a matter of urgency.”

“And it’s a matter we will discuss in the great hall after I’ve had a chance to get my armor off. And eat something. Now, please leave.” He allows a tiny sigh to escape and Lancelot can see his body collapse just slightly. “I appreciate your concern and forthrightness, but these are my private quarters and my lieutenant and I promise you you will have your answers as soon as possible.” Arthur shuffles them out of the room and Lancelot can hear murmured voices and then the door closing, almost a slam. He shuts his eyes and lets go of the dagger in the bedclothes completely.

“Are you alright?”

Arthur sits in his leather chair and begins to get his kit off; Lancelot opens his eyes and lets the shaking come. “Fine,” he grits out. He coughs and clears his lungs and drinks the water Arthur hands him. “They have balls. I’ll give them that.”

“They’re trying to find a way to get you to confess,” Arthur says, his words blunt and his face sharp, an odd contrast Lancelot finds so very typical of the other man. He waits, but Arthur looks down and continues to de-kit. Lancelot cocks an eyebrow and narrows his gaze and waits – Arthur finally looks up at him.

“What.”

“What,” Lancelot mocks, and throws the covers back. “I need to return to my own barracks, Arthur,” he says, and stands, waiting for his weak legs to betray him – will they, can he do this – and he smiles as he stays upright after so many weeks of only staggering to the chamber pot and then only half balanced. “I need to talk to your prisoner, as well.” He steadies himself on the post closest to Arthur and looks around. “The one you thought I forgot you mentioned.”

Arthur stands, and removes Excalibur and his cuirass. He looks for a long time at his father’s sword, and then hangs it on the wall where it rests; a dangerous extension of his own rule. Lancelot sticks out a hand. “Help me to my barracks and then you can go to the others,” he says, ashamed to ask for help, but not willing to stride alone across the garrison, where he could be pressed into the presence of Romans that wanted him dead no matter his side of the story. He needed to speak to the prisoner first, and get his own answers as to why they’d taken Arthur in the first place. And then he could exact revenge the way they should have in the forest, and might have been able to had he not been sick and burning with fever that caused all this in the first place.

He accepts his leathers from Arthur and pulls them on, sighing at the feel of being mobile and dressed and slips his jerkin on after tying the laces of the trousers. He finds his boots and toes them on, moving away from the over-hot brazier and out to the main room for the first time – he needs his swords but he knows they’re not here; Tristan is most likely in possession of them.

Arthur is with him and Lancelot goes to open the door, exhausted and shaking, but smiling at his ambulation. It is a miracle and _freedom_ and he only lists to the side slightly as Arthur grasps his arm before he can completely get out into the hall. Lancelot turns to meet the other man’s gaze and he swallows at the serious look there – but Lancelot is not swayed by Arthur’s expression and never has been. He’ll do what he must and Arthur won’t stop him.

_Slushy bloody snow and the fever was burning bright and hot and Arthur’s shoulder pumps red fluid onto the ground and it’s enough to shock Lancelot into recognition and he feels the disease take him to his knees before he can say anything or ask Arthur why his face is painted like Merlin’s warriors_

He cocks his head.

Arthur’s broad hand touches his neck and then drops to rest over Lancelot’s heartbeat. Arthur’s green eyes catch his, and despite Lancelot’s desire to ignore the other man when he’s trying to control him this way, Lancelot stares back and allows the green to suck him completely in.

“Leave the prisoner alone.”

Lancelot snorts and snatches at the back of Arthur’s hair, the nape of the other man’s neck thick with muscle and familiar. He presses his lips to Arthur’s, the commander jerking with surprise, but it’s been _aeons_ so long that he stands stock still, allowing Lancelot his way.

 _it’s odd and yet familiar and Lancelot can feel Arthur’s blood flowing, hard and fast and he can see it on the ground, staining the snow and Lancelot’s blades_  
and still he kisses Arthur, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

The wind beats at the closed windows, the rich stained glass that keeps the climate out a luxury most commanders at the end of the world don’t have. But Arthur does, and Lancelot feels safe in these rooms. He loves them, in his way. He lo-

“Lancelot. I mean it. Leave the Woad alone; I’ll get my answers my way. Without sacrificing you.” Arthur’s lips are red and Lancelot thinks _too long_ and shakes his head. He drops his hand. “If you help me without it looking like I’m ill,” he bargains. “I’ll only ask once.”

Arthur pinches his lips and crosses his arms. Lancelot reaches around him for the door – the commander opens it and they enter the corridor, together.

Lancelot breathes in the smoke of the torches and the free air of the sky. He’s been abed and sick for so long he’s forgotten the beauty here.

He bites off a short laugh. The beauty of death and possible imprisonment or something worse, if the other Romans have their way. He’ll do what he must to get his own answers; Arthur is Arthur, and that’s a good and bad thing.

The bandage under Arthur’s tunic is visible now, and Lancelot swallows, nausea rising from the sight as well as his attempt to walk a long way for the first time in several weeks.

They walk side by side into the courtyard, Lancelot faltering slightly, his feet holding him up by sheer force of will and the power of his conviction. He barks a cough and his lungs twinge, but he keeps going despite Arthur’s stare. The wind is brusque but clear and he sucks in a deep breath, expanding his aching chest, and they turn the corner toward his barracks and hopefully the answers he’s seeking.

_bled to death_

_Arthur’s face, Woad paint and thick glistening life-blood_

_Lancelot’s swords, breaking skin and muscle, parting it like old cloth_

He’ll find Merlin in this too, and finish that old dangling end.

They walk, and no one dares to stop them once they look on Arthur’s face.

*

Lancelot goes relatively quietly to his quarters; he shambles and hunches and Arthur worries, but the other man waves off the concern and Arthur leans against the wall next to the knight’s barracks briefly, breathing, taking in the air that Lancelot has been fighting to receive for countless weeks. His shoulder aches, and he rubs at it, feeling the ropey tendons beneath, feeling the swooshing of the blood in his veins, feeling the damage that could have been so much worse.

He’d been painted blue, and he hadn’t been wearing his armor, and Lancelot had been ill, so ill. And yet.

Momentary doubt shakes him, makes his legs weak, his hands flutter. He remembers the chance he’d had, to take them out, to kill as many as he could before they killed him. He burns to take Excalibur and ram it through Merlin’s throat, the old man’s blood surely gouting over him, bathing him in retribution he hadn’t felt in years. His mother would be avenged, and his men wouldn’t feel the need to take further action for his abduction.

Why had they done it? Had they had a motive, or had they just grabbed the closest thing in red cloak?

Why had they painted him? Why hadn’t they killed him immediately? Why had Merlin kept him alive?

Arthur pushes off the wall and heads back across the courtyard, stopping when Tristan materializes out of the blackness when Arthur gains the stables.

“Arthur,” the scout says. “You should come with me.”

“I need to get back to the great hall,” Arthur answers without preamble. He rubs his shoulder; he would never tell Lancelot about the pain that accompanies the wound. The other man might never forgive – at least he’d never forget.

“You need to come with me first.”

Tristan turns and Arthur sighs, following him, the night eating them both faster than he can take more than two breaths.

*

They end up outside of the main offices the legion is quartered in at Camboglanna. Tristan hunkers next to a thinly slit window, Arthur kneeling next to him. He feels a brief twinge of pain; he flexes his arm and ignores the rush of guilt that comes with spying on other officers. The moon is covered by a bank of dank, angry looking clouds, and Arthur shivers in the chill of the winter wind –

“What are we doing?”

“Just listen.”

Arthur focuses on the voices he and Tristan are eavesdropping on, and after a moment, his eyes narrow and his mouth purses, anger bringing the hair at his neck to attention, Tristan’s gaze on the side of his head burning a hole there. He stays kneeling, until the men inside, the optio Falco included, break up their impromptu meeting and he and Tristan stay motionless until the men are gone, presumably to the tavern or to their beds.

_\- the perfect opportunity to take that dog and get rid of him once and for all. Castus may be in charge, but not of what the legions do here, and I for one know all the men would agree with our decision to rid the fortress of at least one of the Sarmatian scum. In the morning we can -_

Arthur had heard the details of what they had planned to do, horror in his gut growing until it twists him into a mere husk, brain thundering with the thoughts that he can’t turn off.

“We can take care of them,” Tristan murmurs, his words dead and flat, no intonation giving Arthur any idea as to what the scout really means. But Arthur knows his men, and he knows their true hearts when it comes to Rome, save himself. That is disconcerting and disheartening and he shakes his head immediately. “No more death,” he answers. Tristan says nothing; Arthur can feel the other man lowering his head, and when he looks at him, Tristan’s face is covered by his hair, the tattoos on his cheeks barely visible.

“Tristan,” Arthur says, biting through the name, hard and insistent. “No more death.”

The moon glints in the scout’s hair, but he meets Arthur’s gaze and after a long, interminable moment, nods.

“I knew you’d want to hear this. Something must be done,” he says, steam from his mouth drifting lazily upward. “We can distract them. Convince them some way. We cannot hand them Lancelot.”

“I know,” Arthur’s ire grows; his worry turns and turns and he stands straight, hand resting at the butt of Excalibur. “But what can we do?” Once the army has it in their minds to do something…Arthur is one commander. They are a whole legion, with his ‘best interest’ at heart, and he’s not sure what it would take to stop them.

“I need to think,” he states suddenly. “Tell no one else of this, Tristan. Especially Lancelot,” he adds, grabbing the scout’s arm. “I will come up with something.” He turns and strides away in the direction of the great hall, knowing he has to remain calm when meeting with the other men. The night is progressing way too fast and he increases his speed; Tristan, watching him go, quirks his mouth in the hint of a smile, and heads in the opposite direction.

*

The bars on the cell the garrison possesses are rusty and grimy.

Lancelot, light of foot and sure of purpose, slides inside the small room, dagger held in his hand, long sword at his hip. The guards are easily distracted by the new woman Vanora has at the tavern; he’ll be out of money and favors for a long time thanks to her help. He smiles at the discussion he can hear outside, but his face quickly becomes smooth as he steps into the depth of the tiny room.

It’s close to the first hour and the beginning of the first watch, so Lancelot knows the guard will be fresh and attentive and despite his paid distraction Lancelot needs to hurry. He crouches at the uncared for bars of the cell and knocks the butt of his unsheathed dagger on them. “Wake up,” he calls. “I need to ask you something.”

He’s not sure the prisoner will be able to understand his guttural Latin, but he doesn’t speak the Woad language, and he’s sure they won’t speak his native tongue. He will get _something_ out of them; he smiles and the light that trickles in from the window slit sparks off his teeth and he’s more predator than man – it’s what _Rome_ thinks of them, foreign dogs, conscripts.

He knows his life is on the line. His life and Arthur’s reputation as a commander, unable to keep himself from being kidnapped by the local savages, and Lancelot isn’t sure what the optio and his other legionnaire friends have in mind, but whatever it is –

“You’re still alive.”

The girl.

He shakes his head. “As you are. But I’m out here, and you’re in there.” He smiles more widely, and the shine of spit on his teeth is slick and bright. His lungs twinge and he suppresses the urge to bark a huge cough. His legs ache from crouching; he is dizzy and tired and _fuck’s sake_ this is important.

“You’ll be in here soon, too.” Her voice is slightly accented, but her Latin is impeccable. She’s dirty and young and her face still bears traces of the blue paint she’d been wearing when Lancelot had seen her guarding Arthur and Excalibur in the forest. She scuttles more closely to the bars and meets his gaze; her eyes are green, he realizes, like Arthur’s, and he swallows before kneeling. Better. He will not admit to weakness, especially in front of someone that will die soon. Especially not in front of someone that is partly responsible for the predicament he finds himself and Arthur in.

“Why did you take him?”

“He’s Rome.”

“So are any number of the fools here,” Lancelot shoots back. He jerks a hand out and snatches at the girl’s dirty tunic. “Why him?”

“My father commanded,” she says, leaning forward into his grip. She must be all of thirteen. “Your Artos is a valuable man.” She takes her turn to smile and Lancelot is surprised at the whiteness of her teeth. “Obviously. Look at the trouble this has caused. Once your fortress is distracted enough,” she gestures at the walls and beyond. “It will be easy to take over.”

She smiles, and it’s almost beguiling. “He’s more valuable than you know. My father wants him. Wants him alive. Needs him for something more.”

Lancelot snorts and lets go of her; she smells and he sits back on his heels, his thighs beginning to cramp and he can’t suppress the cough this time. No blood, though, but the girl laughs at him anyway. Her hair is jumbled into a huge dark mass at her neck and he sees the edge of a black tattoo that snakes its way down into her dress.  
“You marked him.” Her words are soft and dangerous, and a thousand thoughts cross Lancelot’s mind.

_a scar, a kiss, a bruise, possession._

_A sword cut near his life vein._

“He wouldn’t have that mark had it not been for you and for Merlin,” he almost-shouts, but the sounds at the door are getting closer and louder and Lancelot knows he doesn’t have much time left with this girl. He could slit her throat and be done with it; he pulls the dagger he’d re-sheathed and it glitters in the moonlight, pretty and dangerous and sharp and yet nothing if not wielded by the right hands.

_Merlin needs Arthur for something more._

He frowns, and then stands, knowing he’s gotten as much answer as he’s going to get. The Woads wanted the fort gone, and why not capture the commander in order to cause enough havoc to get in and raze it to the ground? And what’s the loss of one conscripted dog worth anyway in the grand scheme of this?

He narrows his eyes and looks at the girl where she’s still squatting in her dank cell. Why Arthur though? What could he do for the natives? Why not one of the legion commanders or someone that would cause enough of a stir to send a whole century out in search of them?

Arthur means something to these people. And while Lancelot knows about the death of Arthur’s mother, there must be something he’s missing. He mashes his lips together and fingers his dagger.

A breath shoots from his nostrils and his lungs squeeze painfully – he slams the dagger back into its boot sheath, the long sword at his waist feeling oddly out of place. He’d have brought his blades, but everyone knows him by the sight of them, so better not to – the girl laughs and he looks at her again.

“Things are changing, knight. Rome won’t be here forever. This is our land, and there’s not much you can do about it. But I _can_ do whatever I need to in order to expedite the change coming.”

He doesn’t answer her, save for a look that would have anyone else quaking. His gut roils once; she’d said the same thing Arthur had said earlier. _Rome won’t be here forever._

The door to the tiny, disgusting room rattles; the guard would be growing tired and Lancelot knows it is time – past time – to get moving. He turns once to cast a disparaging glance on the girl. Perhaps she would survive.

Perhaps not.

“We’ll see,” he says, and slips out the door before the guard can come back or the prisoner-girl can say anything else to him to sway his mind.

*

Despite Arthur’s intention to return to his rooms and think logically through the problem at hand, he finds himself wandering the fortress, near the little cemetery, staring at the graves, thinking, always thinking, pain and life and _great Jupiter_ but his shoulder hurts. He rubs his neck and pats the bandage, the heavy clouds promising snow again and he shivers once, the layers of tunic and trousers and hob nailed boots not enough to keep out the chill and worry.

_Commander Castus, it is only right that this man should be punished for your near death._

_It was not his fault, Falco._

_Short of being able to prove his intent, there is nothing else we can do. The legions have spoken._

_I will not accept this. They are my men and my command._

_But you are in partnership with us and part of the Roman Empire, commander, and we must show strength, otherwise who knows what they’ll get in their minds to do next?_

It had been five against one.

He squats at his father’s grave, but stands after a moment. Nothing will come. He feels the shame at what has happened rising, coloring his face despite the cold wind, despite the pregnant clouds, despite what he knows he should be able to do. He rubs his face and sighs, the creaking of the trees and the wind that snatches what little warmth he can feel from his clothing typical of British winter and heavenly Father, what is he going to do?

Merlin had taken him for a reason. Him, Arthur. Not just some other optio, not a legion commander, not a centurion. He can’t get his head around why, unless the old bugger wants to take him out as well as having destroyed the remnants of Arthur’s childhood. That doesn’t make sense; the Woads want their country back through any means necessary, not the murder of random Roman commanders. They’d do anything they needed to in order to make that happen.

_We need you. Your blood. You._

He frowns and cocks his head. Shuffling through the dead leaves and over the winter-brown land, he stops at the foot of another grave.

It’s close to the second watch and Arthur knows he should be in his rooms, trying to sleep. The moon is high and his shoulder burns and his head is whirling like all the garrison has tried to cram inside it – and how can he keep the girl prisoner safe when the men, especially Tristan and by now surely the others no matter what he’d told the scout, know she’s here and easy to get at?

And if the burgeoning idea that’s whirling in his head comes to fruition, how in the world can he get Lancelot to agree to it?

_We need you. Your blood. You._

Night is close to over when he finally rises from his haunches; his brain is whirling and thumping and he _knows_ that Lancelot won’t agree to anything he has to say. It’s cold and the winter is upon them and his wound hurts like all the devils in the world and for one moment, he allows himself to hate his life, hate his profession, hate his father for forcing this life on him. He closes his eyes and shudders in the chill and the guilt that rises with his thoughts and the thing he has to convince Lancelot of makes his temples pulse. He raises a hand and touches his left one; the vein stands out and he curses and kicks at the hard ground, the hobs of his boots catching and throwing a clod of icy dirt.

He has an idea at last, a strange one, one that may not come to fruition or work, but it’s the only idea he can come up with.

_Your blood._

A trumpet blows.

“God, what now?” he whispers, and heads back through the cemetery at a run, leathers and light armor clinking with his movements.

*

“There was a guard on her!”

“Well, someone got in.”

“How in the bloody world is that possible?”

Arthur’s face is purple and his fists are clenched. Blood covers the floor of the single cell and dots the walls and he can smell it, the iron stench filling his nostrils and burning his skin and what the _fuck_ is happening in his own fortress?

The optio’s face is rigid and his body is drawn to attention, but Arthur knows the other man knows something he’s not saying. And now the prisoner he’d set legionnaires to guarding is dead, and she’d been just a girl, even is she was a Woad. And now Arthur knows where the blame will lie.

Brilliantly played.

“I don’t know, commander. Someone with a reason and access had to have been able to get to her.”

He pauses. “Have you found all of your own men?”

Arthur’s growl silences him, but as the other optios and centurions of the fortress arrive, he knows it’s too late to try and do anything else. As the others surround the cell and begin to talk, he closes his eyes once more, and wonders how long Lancelot has to live.

It’s time to find the other man.

*

The stables are his sanctuary, and Lancelot brushes his black, letting the repetitive motion of the actions lull him into being able to think back on everything the girl prisoner had said, namely her repeating of Arthur’s _Rome will soon be gone_ and he is ashamed of his slight jerk when someone touches his left shoulder.

Motes of dust and straw float in the air and his mouth is tight as he finishes currying his mount; he throws the brushes into their bucket harder than he needs to. “Let me guess. Something has happened.”

Arthur’s teeth are bright in the gloom, and Lancelot knows it’s not a smile. He does smile, however, as he turns to the commander and leans against the wall of the stall his horse is occupying. The cold air has made the wood and brick freezing but he refuses to move, coughing once as the thinness of his body – the damn illness is slow in leaving still – allows the chill to permeate him.

Arthur’s face is drawn and hard and Lancelot shakes his head. “Whatever it is, no.”

“The girl is dead, Lancelot. They want your head.”

“They will not have it. I didn’t kill her.”

“But you could have. And they won’t listen to you or any of the others.”

“That is their problem, then. I have patrol to go on,” he cuts Arthur off, and turns to find his tack, only to grunt in shock as Arthur’s hands shove him into the wall and his head cracks against the brick and wood. Arthur’s broad frame presses into his, and Lancelot bites off a curse as the other man pinions him strongly enough that he can’t move. Damn and fuck to hell this weakness that still takes him in such inopportune moments.

“You aren’t going on patrol. I’ve sent Gawain and Galahad in your place. You’re going to do something else.”

Lancelot squirms but Arthur’s arms are relentless. “Let me up, you bastard.” His face scrapes against the roughness of the brick, and his body betrays him as he feels Arthur’s flesh against his, as though the other man would shove him through the wall – it’s hot and familiar and he’s suddenly angrier than he’s been a long time. Angrier than he’d been when he’d seen Arthur trussed and held at the hands of their enemy. Angrier than he’d been when he’d almost cut his commander down with his own blades.

He gets an elbow into Arthur’s ribs and the other man falls away from him, but when Lancelot turns, Arthur’s there, his hands to either side of Lancelot’s shoulders. Lancelot sneers and thinks to bring his knee up into Arthur’s balls, but the commander’s expression – Lancelot’s rage drains away as he catches sight of Arthur’s eyes and then the shoulder that is red and covered still with a small patch of linen, the edge of the puckered healing wound showing through the material.

_Blood on his face, in his mouth, on his hands, dotting the snow. Arthur’s lifeblood pooling at his feet, his blades at the other man’s neck, death screaming for release._

He swallows, and gives up.

“What.”

“I need you to leave here.”

Lancelot looks up from his boots and the floor and stares at Arthur’s face. “You’re joking.”

“When do I ever?”

The horses nicker behind them, and Lancelot’s gut jerks. “How? Why, Arthur?”

“I cannot let you die.”

“How do you know that will happen?”

Arthur’s lips are pinched into a thin line, and Lancelot, a man that knows no fear, has had it beaten out of him, sucks in a breath, his lungs aching with the suddenness as Arthur merely watches him, and he _knows_ with all his brain and blood and with every thud of his heart that Arthur is sure of this.

“Where could I possibly go to escape the wrath of Rome?” Lancelot’s words break as they are spoken, pieces of stone that wear him down and scrape his tongue. “I will die, no matter what happens.”

“I have an idea,” Arthur says, shaking his head. “It’s a … you’ll just have to trust me.”

Lancelot suddenly has a vision of the first time he’d met Arthur, a green boy on a too big horse in a red cloak that nearly swallowed him. He remembers the first time they’d sparred, the first time the other man had chosen him to assist in battle, the first time Lancelot had begun to warily trust this Roman.

He remembers the first time they’d touched, and he wants to sob, and he hates Arthur and this life and he sways forward and grabs at Arthur’s shoulder, pressing his mouth to the other man’s in a possessive action that burns through his entire body.

Another type of fever, a more welcome one this time.

Arthur grunts but his hands rise and grasp Lancelot’s biceps and he kisses back, hard and forceful and Lancelot shakes as his knees threaten to collapse and Arthur is the only thing that holds him up, the only thing he wants and _gods damn the whole world_ as nothing can ever end up right. Ever. Not ever, not since he was taken from his family, not since he’d first come to Britain, not since he’d first seen Arthur, not since he’d been forced to learn the dance of death and become its master and fuck’s sake but _Arthur._

He breaks away and lets his forehead fall to Arthur’s tunic covered shoulder. The dust flies through the air and the horse smell is comforting and loved and he sighs, the breath shaking his body as he breathes in Arthur.

“I do,” he answers finally. “No matter that it will probably end in my death, no matter what you say.”

Arthur laughs and it’s bitter and short.

“Meet me here tonight, with whatever you need to provision yourself for a week. No heavy armor.” Arthur lets go of Lancelot, reluctantly, his fingers peeling slowly from the other man’s arms. He rubs a hand over his face; he is tired, so tired of not getting what he wants that the intensity of the emotions make him weak and angry. The chill of the day seeps through the cracks in the wood and brick walls and he steps backward from Lancelot, wanting more from the knight, wanting to take him by the hand and leave this place with him.

He laughs again, and it’s uglier than before. Lancelot’s face twists, a mockery of his grin, and Arthur sighs.

“Trust me.”

Lancelot closes his eyes. “Aye, Artos.”

Arthur waffles; he knows he needs to go, but the sight of Lancelot, the fact he may never see him again, the fact that this plan he’s cooked up may not work, most likely won’t work, is enough that his face contorts, and he takes the few steps that separate them and he kisses Lancelot once more, desperately, memorizing the other man’s smell, feel, and the taste – it’s everything he needs and wants and has betrayed, all in one.

Lancelot murmurs his name once, and Arthur’s eyes jerk wide open. He breaks his hold on the other man, and the dark brown eyes watch him with an intensity he can’t bear –

Arthur turns and practically runs from Lancelot, knowing if he delays this time, he will do something he will regret forever.

*

Lancelot waits, his pack slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing all his black clothing and has included a light mail shirt, the rings chiming quietly under his hauberk and padded jerkin. His blades are sheathed against his spine and the dark is complete and silent and he waits, watching the clouds, his right hand gripping the lion pendant that is his only connection to home.

Tristan is at his elbow as the snow begins to fall.

“I will watch and make sure you aren’t followed.”

Lancelot’s mouth tightening is the only sign he’s not happy.

“Why are you here?”

“To do my job,” the other man says, and he and Lancelot stare at the swirling flakes until Arthur arrives, silent and drawn and he shakes his head once when he sees the scout waiting with Lancelot.

“The Romans are ready to string him up, as soon as possible,” Tristan says without preamble. “You’d best have a good hiding place.” He turns dead eyes on Arthur. “Otherwise we’ll all have to leave.”

Arthur’s lips turn white. “I do, Tristan. And I would not let that happen to you.” He bites off a curse as Dagonet appears, leading two horses with their hooves covered in fabric, in order to muffle the sound. “The gate sentries are taken care of,” the big man smiles and Lancelot allows his fingers to shake once as they grip his pack and the butt of the small sword at his left hip. The snow falls more heavily, and Dagonet hands the reins to Arthur and then a set to Lancelot.

“Be careful, little brother,” Dagonet smiles briefly at Lancelot, whose eyes narrow. The snow falls faster and he mounts his horse, knowing whatever the other knight did to the gate guards the effect won’t last long. Arthur stares at Tristan and Dag, nods, and then mounts as well. “Thank you.”

Tristan disappears without saying anything to Lancelot; he meets the scout’s gaze but the other man is gone in a swirl of dark so complete Lancelot loses sight of him almost immediately.

Dagonet claps Arthur’s horse on the haunch and they ride out, Lancelot looking back once at the other knight, his lips pressed tightly together in order to stop the cry that wants to come. He twists his mouth hard and they’re through the northern gate and into the woods that gather them in and swallow them, a giant beast that’s forever hungry, the knight and the commander gone in a matter of moments.

*

They stop when the sun begins to rise; Arthur knows by now the optio and the other Romans at the fortress are looking for Lancelot and for him and he’s got to get the knight to his hiding place before they cause trouble for Arthur’s men he’s left behind.

The trees are skeletal and dark and Arthur makes sure his mount is watered properly before seating himself on a fallen log, his armor heavy and for once, he wishes it was just them, just them on a normal day, just he and Lancelot and not doing what he’s got in mind. Especially if the others don’t take the bait he’s offering. Especially if they won’t do what he hopes they’ll do – what they might do based on what they’d said before, and he tightens his lips and his face and head are one aching knot and he cannot believe this is the only idea he could come up with. It is idiocy.

He rubs his hands over his face and his shoulder aches and then he remembers why he’s doing this in the first place as Lancelot joins him, the other man’s leathers creaking as he sits. The sun slowly gains the sky, chasing the thick clouds, their burden of more snow to come promised as they scud heavily overhead, unwilling to completely give up their space in the brightness.

“Where are we going?”

Arthur shoots a breath through his nostrils and hunches forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Just trust me.”

“Arthur,” Lancelot bites off. “This is – ”

He stops as a girl steps out of the trees, blue painted face sharp and young in the new light; Lancelot jumps to his feet, his legs trying to lock from riding for so long, one of his double blades drawn and pointed at the tiny Woad. He steps in front of Arthur.

Arthur stands and forces Lancelot to one side; Lancelot snarls and takes a step toward the girl. The traitorous sun blinds him momentarily, and before he can move enough to see, Arthur’s next to the girl and staring down at her.

Wind rattles the bones of the trees and Lancelot does not let go of his sword, no matter that Arthur seems to trust this child.

“I need to see Merlin.”

_This just might work_

“What.”

Arthur does not turn when Lancelot speaks. The girl nods and jerks her head back toward the trees, and slips her slim form through them as though they are water and she’s the smallest fish in the world.

“Arthur, what is going on?” Lancelot snatches at the other man’s arm before he can disappear with the girl into the forest. “Tell me,” he adds, his anger and confusion making this so much worse. His legs still tremble from the extended riding, and he coughs, his chest twinging, the sickness still there, lurking in the shadows, reminding him he’s not completely well yet. Ice cracks in the branches and the horses, feeling their rider’s moods, raise their heads and whicker nervously.

“Do you trust me?”

“I’m rapidly realizing I shouldn’t have,” Lancelot barks back, his blade trembling slightly in his grip. “What are we doing? There’s only two of us. Granted, it’s me,” his eye roll forces a frown from Arthur, “but I cannot protect us both from a whole Woad force.”

“You won’t have to.” _Thank God they took the bait._

And Arthur looses himself from Lancelot’s grip and follows the girl. Lancelot spits out the ugliest curse he can think of and follows the other man, their hobbled mounts whinnying, the blackness of the winter stripped forest where the sun cannot penetrate absolute and terrifying.

*

“No.”

Arthur shakes his head, moving closer to Lancelot. The group of ten Woads that surround them part on Merlin’s orders, and Arthur takes Lancelot away from the group. It’s freezing and Lancelot’s teeth are chattering and he wants to go back to the fortress and take his chances there. This is a plan that will _surely_ see in his death. Has Arthur gone mad? And why aren’t the blue painted natives attacking them – and why is Arthur willing to even speak to them? Don’t they know one of their number is dead because of him? Dead in the Roman garrison they so obviously hate?

He hates being confused. He hates Arthur more for not telling him about this on their way out from the fort.

He’s not staying in the woods with Woads.

“How in the bloody fuck did you even have time to formulate this plan? I thought you hated Merlin. I thought you fought for Rome,” he narrows his eyes to glittering brown slits. He coughs and spits. “Isn’t he our enemy?” he drags the word out, lowering his voice, words guttural and broken. “Isn’t he the one we just saved you from?”  
“Lancelot,” Arthur is weary, wearier than Lancelot’s ever heard him. “Do you want to live?”

“Not in the middle of the woods with these bastards, no,” Lancelot shouts. “You couldn’t have left me to my fate with the garrison? This is ridiculous. It’s more than ridiculous; it’s foolish and I cannot believe you even … ”

“My people will not hurt you.”

Lancelot whirls and his blades are at Merlin’s throat before the old Woad can make another move. “Don’t speak again, you damn fool, or I’ll have your tongue as my new necklace.” He doesn’t move, even as the ten Woad warriors leap forward and surround them with spears pointed at Lancelot’s heart.

“Stop!”

Arthur’s roar is as it is on the battlefield, and all the men obey him and stop.

The branches around them shiver as they too are affected, and Merlin’s smile is as broad as any Lancelot’s ever seen. “We need you alive, knight, because we need your commander. He will be Britain, although he’s not ready to admit it yet.”

Arthur’s lips are one thin line. “I serve Rome, and I will return home,” he sighs. “But I need your help, this time. You may believe whatever you wish. I will keep your willingness to do this in my thoughts. This once.”

Lancelot’s eyes are the size of shields, round and unbelieving, the hands that hold his weapons dropping slowly to his sides. The Woad warriors step back at a short word from Merlin.

“We’ll hide your knight,” Merlin says. “But you must return the favor one day.”

“Done.”

“Arthur, no,” Lancelot turns and shakes his head, sliding his swords back into their sheaths. “You cannot agree to this.”

“I cannot let you die, either. This is the only way.”

“How did you know they would agree? One of their people is dead in our garrison,” Lancelot hisses. “ _Why_ would they agree?”

Arthur opens his mouth to speak the words _I didn’t_ just as Merlin answers.

“I told you – we need your commander. He will play a part for this land – he just doesn’t know it.” Merlin crosses his arms over his chest; the tattoos there are dark and enigmatic and remind Lancelot uncomfortably of the ones Tristan wears on his cheeks. He sneers at the old man and turns his back on him. Dapples of sunlight have finally broken through the winter shadows and Arthur’s face is halfway hidden; Lancelot’s sneer becomes something broken and he feels his shoulders bend, collapse, give in.

_Give up._

“Will you come for me?”

“Lancelot,” Arthur takes his arm again and again the Woads part for them. They cross to a thicker copse of trees and Arthur allows himself to feel the anger and fear at this situation, this unwanted thing he’s done to his lieutenant and friend. His –

“I didn’t sign up to spend the rest of my life in the fucking woods, Arthur. I didn’t even sign up to spend my life doing anything here at all.” Lancelot shrugs. “I cannot believe I’m agreeing to this. I can’t believe you trust the man who had you kidnapped to actually leave me alive.”

“He needs me for something,” Arthur says, his voice soft and wondering. “I hate them. They are responsible for my mother’s death and the destruction of my village. But I need them as well.”

Saying the words Arthur feels the need to vomit. But the words are the truth and he needs Lancelot to be safe until he can figure something else out.

_What am I doing to him? To me?_

“How long?”

“I don’t know.”

Lancelot’s eyes close.

The sun slips behind the thickening clouds and the sound of birds fills his ears, the black crows and ravens that make this part of Britain their home beginning to return to the trees, the sky swirling black with their wings and Lancelot turns his back on Arthur.

“Very well.” He is ice, stiff and unyielding and he cannot believe he is agreeing to this suicide. The men in the garrison will never stop looking for him. Never. Arthur has to know this.

And still he agrees. And still Arthur lets him.

He feels Arthur’s hands on his shoulders and wants to turn, wants to tell the other man it’s alright, he forgives him this, but he can’t, and his face is the mask he wears for any other save Arthur.

Arthur’s body is broad and fills the clearing with its size and Lancelot doesn’t move, even when the Roman steps up behind him and surrounds him with _Arthur_ and doesn’t move when Arthur’s lips and nose are in his neck, doesn’t move when Arthur murmurs his name and _I need you to live_ , the dryness of Arthur’s mouth against the big vein in Lancelot’s throat a gift and a curse and Lancelot bites his tongue until the blood flows freely in his mouth. He closes his eyes and memorizes this thing that has damned him and yet he loves it, loves it enough to do what Arthur asks. No matter the consequences. No matter the fact he knows he most likely can never return to Camboglanna.

No matter what Arthur promises.

He shoves his shaky hands inside the flaps of the jerkin he wears and steps away from the commander, looking at the sky, filled with birds and he hates this place, hates his life, hates everything except for that brief moment he’d had with Arthur where he could think that perhaps things might end up safely for him, things might end up with him actually going _home_ after his fifteen years, that things might end up with he and Arthur being able to do what they wanted finally, at last.

What a joke.

“Wait for me.” A joke, an awful joke.

“Aye, Artos,” he says, and the brokenness in his voice is final, infinite, and Arthur speaks a few words with Merlin while Lancelot waits, facing the ten warriors that stare at him with suspicion and wariness and he tilts his head back, watching the plume of smoke from his breath, his arms surrounding his sides, the fever that has caused all this mocking him from memory, burning him even as he can feel Arthur leaving, the other man’s big body gone from the clearing, leaving him with strangers that he’s killed for the past eight years.

He lowers his head and stares back at all of them as Merlin approaches, blue painted face lined and ageless.

*

The optio and the legates and almost all the legion are waiting for Arthur when he arrives back at the fortress, his mind and mood black, his readiness to draw Excalibur something the knights can see, but the foolish Romans step forward as he dismounts.

“Where is he?” the young unfortunate optio barks before Arthur can get a foot on the ground. He lowers himself off his mount totally and stays facing his horse, the heat and familiarity of the animal a balm that keeps Arthur from immediately turning and chopping the idiot Falco’s head off. The sun has set and he’s shaking and exhausted and he’s just left his best friend and lover to the mercy of their enemy and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever see Lancelot again and Arthur turns and snarls, his craggy face exploding with the force of his words. The Romans step back, but the knights just smile and watch.

“Are you questioning what I’m doing right now, optio?”

“No sir. It’s just – we can’t – where is the man Lancelot?”

“My lieutenant is gone.” Arthur steps closer to the other man, and stares down at him, all fire and brimstone and he remembers _patience_ but all his prayers aren’t working. The night is too cold and the promised snow begins its journey to the ground, dusting his shoulders and turning his black leathers white. He hates everything and the _anger_ that’s always so carefully leashed crawls from its den, salivating and ready to show its face, finally.

Gawain’s hand is on his shoulder. “Commander,” he says calmly. “Did you find any trace of him?”

The Romans pause, waiting. Arthur’s breath is harsh in the cold, the snow a gentle counter to his hurt. He wants to burn it to the ground suddenly, hating everything, hating this place, hating the actions that have brought him and his men here, hating the idiotic warriors that won’t think beyond the rules the army has set for them. Why find the truth when there is a convenient conscript ready to be culpable?

He grits his teeth so hard his jaw pops, but he doesn’t shake Gawain’s hand off his armor-coated shoulder. “No. No trace.”

“We’ll go again in the morning,” the knight adds, and he turns to stare at the Romans, joining his gaze with the force of Arthur’s. “Right?”

“As soon as we are able,” Arthur bites off, the _voice_ taking his tongue and the other Romans back completely away, kowtowing to Arthur’s command and his status. Arthur’s mount whinnies and a stable boy runs to take care of the horse, tugging his forelock in deference to Arthur and his status. “I’ll keep you informed, optio. In the meantime, burn the murdered prisoner and give me the ashes, tonight.”

He sighs and feels his resolve threaten to disappear, but doesn’t allow it. “We will meet before I ride out again and discuss the rest of this.” His gesture takes in the rest of the courtyard and whole fortress, and in doing so, takes his hand away from Excalibur and the promise of retribution it holds. This is the fault of these men and their prejudices and Arthur wants nothing but to end all of this – he swallows and allows Gawain to lead him away from the courtyard and the swirling mess of Arthur’s command and his life.

He hears the optio snap orders at the legionaries that had been listening to every word, and with every bit of his legendary control he forces each booted foot in front of the other and follows his knight to their great hall, and the table that waits for him, the seat at his left side empty.

*

He’s done this, he’s responsible, and he can’t help but think of only that as he spews meaningless words to the other Romans that occupy the garrison with him, thinking only of how disappointed Uther would be in him, how horrible his father would think he’s run his command, how sorry he’d be if he could see Arthur’s face and see what was in his mind.

He can only put off the legion for so long, can only foster them off on each other for a few days before they decide to go looking for Lancelot on their own, no matter his assurance that the knights and himself will do their very best to find the “runaway” Sarmatian.

The knights find Arthur at the foot of his father’s grave, hair neatly combed, face clean and freshly shaved, full battle kit surrounding and adding to his own large frame. Excalibur is cleaned and oiled and Dagonet is the one who dares to step forward and ask their commander why he looks as though he’s ready to fight a real war versus just go on the patrol they’re scheduled to go on.

Blackened and dirty snow melts on the toes of Arthur’s boots, and his arms remain crossed as he continues to look at the swordless grave.

“I need to get him back.”

Dagonet nods. “Aye, Arthur. But not right now.”

“It’s my fault he may die out there.”

“It’s your doing he may live.”

“They won’t let him. You know that as well as I. What have I done?” Arthur raises his eyes to the knight’s, and they are red and achy and he feels like he’s going to vomit. “I’ve doomed him to a death that won’t be honorable. Knights,” he turns to face the remaining men, all of them, his men, his loyal knights, and he has to bite his lip hard. “Which of you will come with me to rescue Lancelot?”

_Dear God, what have I done?_

“He’s fine,” Tristan pushes his way through the small crowd of Sarmatians and locks angry dark eyes on their commander. “He is fine, Arthur. Leave it. We can’t bring him back here. They will never stop looking. They will never forgive him for something they can so easily blame on him. A scapegoat will always be a scapegoat. Especially a conscripted one.”

The scout’s face is impassive and Arthur allows one broken noise to squeak passed his tight line of lips. He knows Tristan is right, but he _promised_. He shuts his eyes just for a moment, a self indulgent, raw moment, and when he opens them, the others are gone, save Gawain.

“Give it time, Arthur,” the blond says, his ridiculously meticulous locks icy with the damp and the snow. It brings a blue tinge to his skin, and Arthur wonders just how much he truly owes these men. “You will see him again, I swear it. We will. Tristan will keep watch.”

“Soon, Gawain. I will not let this lie long.”

“Aye, commander,” the knight nods. “Arthur,” he questions when Arthur turns back to face his father’s grave once more. “You know we need you as well.”

_To keep us safe._

Lancelot had voiced that truth, horrible as it was, so many times that Arthur had it ingrained in his very being. He can hear Lancelot saying it, the other man’s voice overlapping Gawain’s, the timbre and fire and tenacity of _Lancelot_ so strong – the other man’s face wavers before Arthur, alive and strong and full of everything that makes Lancelot something Arthur can’t live in the world without.

Not anymore, and not ever, once he’d met the other man.

He swallows and shakes his head and Lancelot is gone, and Gawain says “…us safe. We need you, Arthur.”

“I know. I am here.” He steps away from Uther’s grave and slowly raises a hand, touching Gawain’s shoulder. “I am here.”

They turn and walk from the cemetery, and Arthur only falters slightly.

They will find Lancelot, and they will bring him home. The knights need him, and they will have him. That if nothing else can be Arthur’s reason to exist –

**coda**

_Wait for me._

The voice in the man’s head echoes and he remembers the one who’d said it, so long ago, months and years it’s been now –

He crouches in the tree, hair wild and braided, bow at his side, watching the men ride under him, heading north, not safe in this country, not safe in this territory. The other warriors around him are ready to pounce, to take out the foreigners that dare to invade their land.

They ready themselves, but the final man to enter the clearing on his giant white horse wears a red cape and the man with the bow hiding in the tree above him jerks a fist upward, staying the other warriors.

This one won’t be harmed. No matter what the other men want.

The former knight watches the current ones and their commander ride through the trees, the tall bald one muttering about ‘devil ghosts’ even as the Woads ache to annihilate them. The man in the tree keeps his fist raised until the wind and lightning drives the Roman and the knights from their clearing onward toward the rest of the forest and the villa that is apparently under their protection now. The villa that is in the path of marauding Saxons, and the man laughs to himself to think what will happen to them, regardless of Rome’s apparent protection. No matter how good he knows – he remembers – these particular knights are.

He wonders briefly why these men in particular have been assigned to do this type of duty, but doesn’t have time to think much beyond that when the other warriors begin to question his judgment at letting the knights cross through their land unscathed.

He doesn’t answer; his native Briton tongue is not very good, and he merely smiles widely, his still white teeth glowing in the gloom.

The swords that he keeps at the camp where he lives now haven’t been used in a long time, but when they arrive back after failing to kill a single cavalryman he stops in his tent, lifting a blanket and pulling the blades out to examine them.

The Woads aren’t his family, and this is not his home. But he’s been gone long enough from what had been the closest thing to home he’d had since he’d been taken from his birth land that it’s as good as any.

Save for one thing, and he’d just allowed that thing to escape him, riding on a white charger, red cape flowing in the heady wind, a flag of status that marked the other man as a commander no matter that he’d recognize that face and the bearing of the Roman anywhere. No matter how long it’s been.

No matter the broken and worried look on the commander’s face as he’d scanned the trees with his bright green eyes.

No matter that they’ve never come for him.

He smiles and puts the swords back from where he’d taken them, and pulls the tattered remains of his … jerkin … back together with the leather thongs he’s used to tie it. The others laugh at him for his trappings of his old life, but he won’t let it go.

When he looks up, Merlin’s at the front flap to his tent and watches as the warrior puts the blades back and stands. They call him _eagle_ now, which make him frown but secretly amuses him; with his angled face and nose and bones sharp enough to cut he _is_ a raptor, really, and why not be a representation of the thing he hates the most in the world. He and Merlin stare at each other, and gradually the old Woad melts back into the darkness of the approaching night and rainstorm.

When the ex-conscript lays down to sleep later, the three words he always remembers every night, each night, words he’ll never forget, ever, echo in his exhausted mind, whirling and tearing and his eyes brim with his oddly angry tears. He does not cry, though.

_Wait for me._

He will. No matter if they never come.

**Author's Note:**

> This is (I think) the seventh long fic I've written for this fandom and my first big bang fest. It was a really fun, stressful, enjoyable and crazy experience. I have utmost respect for the mods and for the folks behind the scenes who put all this together. Thank you for being so easy to work with.
> 
> Thanks again to Marple for her collaboration and humor and willingness to adjust to whatever I asked for. I know she went through some tough times right in the middle of this and I appreciate her jumping back on track and turning out some really amazing art. We are still working on some of it, so there will be more to come.
> 
> Again, all mistakes are mine, and while I love this story and this time period, I hate long research, so I'm sure I didn't call some commander or optio or whatever by the right name. I know I also use the name "Falco" all the time, and apologies to Lindsey Davis for that. Also thanks to the Musketeers and Athos and Aramis for allowing me to steal that "what?" scene. 
> 
> I have to hope the way I ended this is plausible; one of my favorite things about Arthur and Lancelot is Arthur's belief he has to "save" everyone, and Lancelot's staunch defense that they can do just fine on their own. But in reality...how long would these particular conscripts live in the Roman army without a commander that cared about them? 
> 
> I leave it up to the reader to decide if the woad girl is Guinevere or not. 
> 
> I have written in the King Arthur fandom for ten years now and still love it to bits. I have slowed way down on my fic as I feel as though I've told most of what I can tell, but they will always pop up again sometimes and I have the feeling they'll never totally leave me. I hope not.
> 
> All feedback is love, and thanks to all of you that took the time to read this.


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